Summary: I can't get no sleep
Rating/Warnings/Notes: PG-13. Language. To be on the safe side: light angst, but for a greater good. Brian's POV. Post S4.
Beta: zoisite84, who is just aaaamazing. Thanks a lot, we should take a nap together later on ;)
Disclaimer: Brian and Justin belong to Cowlip, no copyright infringement is intended.
Feedback would be very much appreciated.
This is insane. Completely, utterly fucked up. And what a waste of time.
But itís like the night before and the night before that: sleep wonít come. I toss, I turn, I feel like the most pathetic loser for my whining, but damn, I just need some fucking sleep.
I canít exactly pinpoint when it started. I never cared much about sleep, never needed much. There were always other, more important, far more enjoyable things to do, especially in bed. And somehow, I always got the amount of relaxation my body needed, so why bother?
But this has changed lately. For some weeks, I wake up in the middle of the night and have trouble falling asleep again. Itís become some kind of regular pattern. And now, for a few days, I barely sleep at all. And though I hate to admit it, even to myself, it bothers me. A lot.
Itís not that I do anything differently than before. I donít drink more coffee Ė in fact, I didnít drink any coffee at all today, which made me snarky and picky, more than usual, that is. It felt awful to give up caffeine, but thatís how desperate I am. And this thought alone makes me feel sick.
I was also trying to trick my body by exhausting myself. Iíve been working like crazy the last few days, pitching campaigns, talking clients into anything, monitoring every fly on the wall. And it seemed to work at first. Just today, I laid down on my sofa during lunch break and shut my eyes for a few minutes. But then Theodore came in Ė he never bothers to knock anymore, I have to change that as soon as possible Ė and almost freaked when he saw me. I had to calm him down, tell him that no, it wasnít anything cancer-related and yes, Iím doing fine, I was just trying to think with my eyes shut. The fuck Iíd have told him I was tired and opting for a short nap. Here goes nothing.
Later today, I went to the gym and had one hell of a workout. I got home, took another hot shower, lay down and here I am. As soon as my body touched the mattress I knew it wouldnít work. Fuck.
I am tired but canít sleep. Someone just tell me what the fuck is going on. Iím going crazy.
Okay Kinney, try to think. What are my options? Meet my friend Jim and drink until I pass out? Hardly. Brown is scheduled for 9 am tomorrow and last thing I can afford is a hangover. Same thing goes for pills, too late for that now. Drugs might have the same effect. Besides, I donít have any left, scary as it is. But Iíve been too busy lately to go out and meet the people whoíd help me restock. I need to re-establish some contacts, I remind myself.
I could watch television, one of these pathetic movies Justin loves so much and that usually put me to sleep in no time. Only, Iíve tried that yesterday and it didnít work. Jerk off and fall asleep in a post orgasmic bliss? Yeah, well, I already came twice since Iím home and am still eyeing the ceiling. Maybe a real fuck would help. I could call some guy and invite him over. But then Iíd have to wait for him first. And who knows, as fucked up as I am, my body might finally give in the very second he knocks. If not, heíd have to undress, get over here, Iíd have to prepare him, maybe he even wants to talk. Afterwards, Iíd have to kick him out and face another likely argument about that. The thought alone makes me cringe. Yes, Brian Kinney, too lazy and tired to invite someone over to fuck, watch the world come to an end.
Iím so desperate that Iím ready to do almost anything. So I decide to think about my problem. Realization through analysis? Might be worth a shot. Itís not like Iím even considering going to a shrink or anything. Itís just me, trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong.
Have I ever had these problems before? Laying in bed, not being able to sleep, feeling an inner frustration growing by the minute?
I know I have. But I never thought about it this way. And even after all these months, I still hate to think about it.
It was during the phase I used to refer to as Ďthe liberation of Brian Kinneyí. Which it wasnít, I know that now. It was more Ďthe liberation of Justin Taylorí, considering all the changes he went through. Okay, we both went through. Him acknowledging that romantic gestures and sweet words are not the basis for a relationship; me acknowledging that trust and this damn good feeling I canít explain in words are the basis for a relationship. Whatever. Fact is, I had trouble sleeping when Justin was screwing the fiddler. Although I never looked at it this way back then. Sure, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, doing anything but sleeping. But I told myself I was contemplating how Justin could be so dumb and fall for all this bullshit in the first place. I was wondering how long it would take him to realize what a fool heíd made of himself. I thought about how he dared to choose this cheap imitation of a good fuck over me.
Thatís what I made myself think. What I wanted myself to think. Although, itís more likely I didnít or couldnít sleep back then just because he wasnít there, for whatever reasons. Pathetic.
JustinÖ itís strange. Heís gone again, though only temporarily this time. And thatís not the only difference between both our Ė dare I say it? Ė separations. Back then during his fiddler episode, nobody would even mention his name when I was around. It was as if Justin had simply disappeared. Not for me, though, I was somehow, unconsciously, always on the lookout for his presence. Going to the diner. Asking him to do the carnival sketches. Not to mention the way he fucked my mind while my dick was busy fucking someone else. But the people around me carefully avoided to talk about anything Sunshine-related.
This time, itís completely different. I canít have one decent conversation without being asked about Justin at one point. ĎHowís he doing?í ĎIs Justin enjoying L.A.?í ĎHas he met anymore famous people yet?í ĎWhen will he come back?í
Iím so sick of it. Most of the times, I bark something unintelligible and switch the topic. However, sometimes, I share some information I donít really have. ĎYes, heís fine.í ĎYes, heís having a great time.í ĎYes, heís meeting a lot of stars.í ĎYes, heíll be back soon.í
The thing is, when I talk to Justin, itís like the counterpart of my daily inquisition. He wants to know if Lindsay and Mel are still over or getting back together, he asks how the baby and Gus are doing, if Hunterís got a new girlfriend, how Debbie, Carl and Emmett get along. So we chat about other people, he tells me about his job, I bitch about my employees and clients. Before or after this gossip exchange, we include a hot phone sex session. Thatís the part I enjoy most and I bet he does, too. I do most of the talking. Usually Justinís the one who babbles without a pause, but when it comes to talk dirty, he knows itís best to let me take over. And I donít need him to talk anyway. Hearing his moans and gasps and beggings through the receiver is more than just good enough for me. For us both. Finally, he says he misses me, I say Ďyeahí or something the like and maybe, on a good day, I tell him what Iíve planned for the loft. My way of saying I miss him, too and I know he gets it.
Thinking about it now, we never really talk about us. I wonder when this started to disturb me. But well, when I tell others heís doing fine, Iím never really sure. And why the fuck is that so? Itís what he tells me when I ask him, damn it. But how do I really know? And if I feel like heís just brushing me off for whatever reasons whenever I ask him, am I just an over-worried, pathetic twat or have I become some kind of, I donít know, caring partner?
Jesus. No wonder I canít sleep.
Justinís a big boy, he can take care of himself. Right? I tell Debbie on a daily basis. I even told Jennifer when we met for lunch a couple of days ago. (I still donít know how this happened. I havenít told Justin, though Iím sure she told him. And Iíll give him extra credits for not mentioning it.)
But is he really? I know he thinks I will say so. I also know thatís just what he wants me to think. But Iíll be damned if he tries some shit just to prove something, anything, and gets in trouble. Two words: Pink Posse. Know what I mean?
Fuck, fuck, fuck. There it is: Iím worried. Fuck, Kinney, youíre really losing it big time. Iím deprived of sleep and going insane. Or maybe itís the other way around, maybe I canít sleep because Iím worried? Either way, Iím completely fucked up. Brian Kinney thinks he and his partner should talk more often. The world really is coming to an end.
And here I am, back at considering my options. Not many left, I guess. I glance at the clock: 3 am. That would be, like midnight in glorious California? Hmmm. I know Iíll make a fool of myself. Itís different when Justin calls me in the middle of the night. I mean, heís Justin, he can do that. Like so many other things I canít. And heís probably not home anyway. Maybe at some cool party or club. Turning some straight movie star into a big bottom. Getting highÖ
I reach for my phone and hit #1 on speed dial. The callís answered after the second ring.
ďHey,Ē I say, knowing that caller ID makes any other introduction pointless. ďDid I wake you?Ē
ďNah,Ē he answers, ďI canít sleep.Ē
Looks as if Iím not the only one. Maybe itís something with the moon. But his voice alone makes my eyes flutter shut like some kind of weird reflex.
ďSo,Ē I go on, ďtell me whatís wrong.Ē
And finally, he does.
At 3:43 am, we tell each other Ďgoodnightí and I put the phone down. I fall asleep about two minutes later.